


London Calling

by SansSoucis



Series: Kissing Knuckles [8]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Brexit, Dark, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Drunk Dialing, Jealousy, Love Triangles, M/M, Masochism, Phone Calls & Telephones, Romance, Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22699498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SansSoucis/pseuds/SansSoucis
Summary: " 'You're with him, of course you are. Always are now. When did I stop being good enough for you?'The question is so deeply drenched in bitterness France can taste the echo of it on his tongue.Truth is, he doesn't know if England was ever good enough, or ever not good enough for that matter. Good and bad all faded into a blur when it came to Arthur, and trying to love him did not feel quite right, but also never wrong.England was beautiful in his hideousness, violent as he cherished; everything he'd ever wanted and everything he feared; England was England and England had been there always, and that was the end of it. "France receives a highly intoxicated phone call. While England might have left the European Union, he bears no intention to leave his nemesis alone.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia), France/Germany (Hetalia)
Series: Kissing Knuckles [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1193495
Comments: 10
Kudos: 85





	London Calling

The 1st of February, 2020, and France stares restlessly at a blank point on the ceiling, plagued by insomnia and an unsettling feeling of loss. He raises the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply, halfway through his second packet of the day. He's promised Ludwig to try and quit smoking, for cancer really is one of the vilest ways to die, even for immortals like themselves.

However, what his lover didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, and right now Germany is sleeping soundly beside him, oddly vulnerable in the way he's taken the blankets into his thick-knuckled fists and drawn them up to his chest. It's astounding really, how youthfully handsome his stern face becomes once it is not sprung tight with tension. Too bad he doesn't see the sight too often, France muses sourly, especially with the Union going through hell and back within the last few years.

As if answering to a beckoning, his business phone starts vibrating within the nightstand drawer, and as France shoves cheap bars of soap and condoms out of the way in order to get it he doesn’t even need to look at the contact name to know who it is is, for there is only one nightmare of a man who would call him at this ungodly hour of the night.

 _'..’allo?_ ' He yawns boredly, rather unsurprised to find a posh drawl on the other end of the line. 

'Frog-face. Glad you're picking up now.'

France forcefully squeezes the top of his nose bridge between his fingers in an attempt to ease the already upcoming headache. 

'Still not planning on giving up then, Angleterre?' 

'You wouldn't want me to.' England states rather bluntly, though it gets across as more of a plea than a fact. Liquor has crept into his voice, laying heavy on his tongue and pulling at his words. 

'To any reasonable person the amount of numbers I currently have you blocked on would speak otherwise, don't you think?' 

The phone breathes a laugh, that one nasty little laugh laugh that haunts France in his dreams up until this very day, and he can vividly picture the look in England's eyes right now, defiant emeralds. 

'You've never really been one to go for the _reasonable_ types, until that bloody robot came along, that is.'

'You need to stop doing this. It is pathetic. You're drunk.'

'DON’T YOU DARE HANG UP ON ME!’ England roars in an unexpected amount of decibel and France has to shove fingers over the microphone in order to keep the sound from echoing around the hotel room. 

'You _can't_ \- You can't stay mad at me forever, France!' 

' _Watch me try,_ _Rosbif_.' He hisses under his breath, throwing paranoid glances at the slumbering figure beside him as England makes a series of unidentifiable sounds, muddled in between laughter and sobbing. 

'-ack, God.. You're so fuckin' - _so_ \- You don't have the bloody right to be so angry at me! None of you people have! It was my decision and mine alone! It’s not my problem that you all can't see you need to save yourselves!' 

At France's annoyed silence he carries on:

'I chose for myself, don't you understand? Surely a self-absorbed prick like you would get it, right? So vain and selfish you've been, always, so-' 

There he goes again, off to take a stab at his pride hoping to get struck down in return, as always, and France is _tired_ , so tired of it all-

'-I'm not going to fight you on this.' He says sharply, clear determination in his voice cutting through England's dazed rambling like a spear. 'We've had this talk thousands of times now and I'm _done_. I'm done! You chose. You left. You got what you wanted. It's over.'

For a moment it sounds as if his words murder England's spiteful retort in the back of his throat, but then he speaks again, because of course he does, his mortal enemy never being one to leave a battlefield unless disintegrated into lifeless limbs. 

'It's not over. It's not, it can't be, I-' 

'- _Angleterre_ , listen to me. You got your way. You won. You are now free to run off and go be bosom buddies with dear _Amérique_. Why do you still insist on terrorizing me in the middle of the night? What is it that you seek from me?' 

England's voice is very, very quiet as he speaks again. 

'I didn't do it to spite you, you know. Leave the Union. Didn't do it to hurt you.'

'Of course you didn't. You never do.'

_'I-'_

'-Your breath is already weak, Arthur. Don't waste any more of it.' He mutters in a voice too exhausted to have any kind of snark to it, pressing his cigarette butt into an ashtray with unnecessary force. 

'Why are you not out there celebrating with your people? This is your big day,isn't it? Haven't you been longing to take back your sovereignty for all these years?'

Today. After months of feeling like they all had been caught up in a nasty fever dream, England was finally out. Out to step into the world on his own, trusting blindly on the power he once held when he'd conquered half the earth, seemingly unaware that the very world as he and France and all other former great powers had known it has long crumbled into nothingness around them. 

England's departure had consisted of the fool going around Parliament offering brief handshakes and kisses while unconvincingly trying to keep a triumphant smile from cracking his face wide open. 

He had failed when he came to France, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on his hip with an astounding familiarity, pressing unexpectedly tender kisses onto both of his cheeks that made Francis’ insides curl up upon themselves in all sorts of painful ways, and as he stepped back, cruel Arthur had laughed at loud at seeing Ludwig eye the intimate moment with severe unease from across the room.

Oh, how he had despised England, for in spite of how much hurt he caused Germany in that very moment, he had looked nothing short of beautiful with crude joy etched onto his boyish features.It had been an incredibly uncomfortable ride back to their hotel, with France continuously rubbing at his eyes and stone-faced Germany looking out the window pretending not to notice. 

'I've already been out, actually.' England slurs into the phone. 'Went down to the pubs for a couple of drinks, met this lovely blonde bird; went to her place to just.. _you know_ \- how it goes.'

France knew exactly how it went; being pinned beneath drunk England more often than he could count, and far more often than he would've liked, yet part of him still starts aching at the thought of having Arthur's glazed-over loving gaze directed at him again; a pair of glossy greens. In Francis' silly fantasies they'd always reminded him of morning dew on grass, grass that grew in abundance on the island where he first fell for the stubborn barbarian child, fell for him hard; face first into the dust to never fully recover; the impact having him taste bitter blood in his mouth still. 

'And _why_ do you think I care for your drunk escapades?' He spits, grabs another cigarette to light with practiced ease, just to give his angrily trembling fingers something to hold on to. 

'Because- when she was down on her knees- and when she moved to kiss me on the bed- I.. I saw you, Francis.' 

The whispered confession makes him choke hard on the smoke he'd been inhaling and he clamps a hand over his mouth trying to stifle his sharp, hoarse coughs. England appears to pay him no mind, or is too far gone to notice, blabbering on in a voice thickening with despair at every single word it speaks. 

'She tried her best, poor thing really did. But I _can't_ .. Can't even remember what her bloody face looked like, because all I could see was _you._ Just you. Do you understand?' The question rings sharply in his ears, sending pain pulsing up his temples. 

'England, I-' He begins once he's regained his breath, but falls silent, not because he has ran out of words to spill, but because he would not know where to start. England waits patiently in heavy breaths on the other end of the line, but as several painful seconds tick by, he speaks again:

'I left her, you know. To ring you, I mean. Practically ran out the door with some scumbag excuse just to hear that godawful broken English of yours.. Just to hear your voice..' 

He finishes with a sob, and in the tense silence that follows France can hear the rumbling of voices, footsteps in the background, the drunks of the city out on the streets to drink their thoughts to waste. 

'You are not home.'' He concludes sharply, trying to tune out the others breathless sobbing. 'Where are you?' 

'Not where I want to be, that's for fucking sure.' England breathes with a laugh, as if there's some sort of morbid humor to be found within this situation. 'But then again, I never am, am I?' 

He retches loudly, and the gruesome sound has France wincing before he gets up from the bed and takes his laptop from the desk. 

'Just tell me where you are, Arthur.' He grits out as he pulls up a page of British taxi agencies. _'Londres?_ Manchester?' 

'I don't bloody know, earth, somewhere, _anywhere_ , where are you?' England chokes out, and France growls in frustration as he slams the laptop shut with a loud _smack_ , flopping back down on the bed.

' _Angleterre,_ you miserable drunk _fool_ -' 

'Would you want me, France? Wherever you are, would you want me there?' England whispers sadly, and in his mind France can see him slumped over the horn in a dirty booth, booze-breath ghosting the windows.

He runs a gentle hand over Germany's brow, fondness creeping into his voice as he watches him wrinkle his nose at the ticklish touch. Child-like, almost. Ludwig was so young still. Too young to fall victim to the whims and woes of bitterly disillusioned nations such as England and himself. 

'I don't think _Allemagne_ would be up for any sort of unexpected visit. Surely you haven't forgotten Europe's timezones already, _ami_. It's 3 AM here.'

There's a series of dull thuds sounding back in Britain. England kicking angrily at anything within his reach. The thought sends satisfaction burning through his veins. 

'You're with him, of course you are. Always are now. When did I stop being good enough for you?' 

The question is so deeply drenched in bitterness France can taste the echo of it on his tongue. 

'You weren't ever good for me, _Angleterre._ And I was not good for you. Even one as romantically inept as yourself ought to realize that.' 

Truth is, he doesn't know if England was ever good enough, or ever not good enough for that matter. Good and bad all faded into a blur when if came to Arthur, and trying to love him did not feel quite right, but also never wrong.

England was beautiful in his hideousness, violent as he cherished; everything he'd ever wanted and everything he feared; England was England and England had been there always, and that was the end of it. 

'You can't just do this. Not when I love you still.'

It was not going to end, never would, even if another thousand lifetimes would pass. He loved Arthur dearly, hated him so very badly too, and he did not know how to make it stop, how to go on if it did, for all he had ever known had been tainted by England's greedy hands all over. 

'If the scars on my body are written in your language of love; Lord do I fear the day that you will come to hate me. Thousands of years England, that's how long this has gone on for!' 

He's glad England is not able to see him right now, digging trembling fingers into the phone until the sting in his nail beds makes him nauseous. 

'THAT DOESN'T MEAN YOU CAN JUST STOP!' 

England's cry is almost feral, wounded dog. His little British bulldog, always keen to bite, France thinks with a sour smile.

'You can't just trade me for some- some _pushover_ child with a guilt complex too big to ever deny you what you want!' 

As if able to hear England's voice from where's he's far away caught up in slumber, his lover grumbles something incomprehensible before rolling over.

France watches him, thinks of the rare times where they've got a weekend off and take on a trip to Normandy in his rickety Citroën to sit on the freezing beach in fold up chairs. He thinks of the hideous spare windbreaker that Germany loyally brings along to such occasions for him to relentlessly ridicule but end up wearing anyway. Thinks of all the wonderful tiniest of things that Ludwig does for him without even thinking twice, all the things that make him feel odd and fuzzy and alright. 

'Let me tell you, Francis, you'll get tired of walking all over him _real_ quick!' 

He finds solace in Germany calm, sturdy presence, the way his mind works in familiar patterns and routines, the way he stands up for himself without using fists or teeth. It is what he needs, truly aches for after being wrecked by a thunderstorm like England for a thousand years on end. 

'Ludwig has given me something you failed to bring me in hundreds of our lifetimes.' 

'And what might that be? A hand-baked Blackwood Cherry cake??' England's voice is hard and snide, thrown from over the high walls that he draws up as soon as someone dares to take a stab at his cold, bitterly guarded heart. 

'Peace.' France states, can't keep a loose smile from crawling up his face as he realises it is the truth. 

His nemesis is quiet for a long, long time after that, and a perverse part of France faintly wishes he was there in the phone booth with him, for England has always looked his prettiest when hurting. 

'Prove it to me then.' He says at last, voice thick with resentment. 'Prove to me that that is all you long for. Tell me to hang up the phone.'

'.. I don't think I understand.' 

'Just- tell me to fuck off! Tell me that you're more than happy cuddling up to Germany right now and _don't_ want me to pull myself out of this smelly phone booth and come find you.'

His voice roughens with anger as he talks, breathing heavily into the phone, and the familiarity of the sound has the hairs on the back of France's neck rise. 

'You don't want me to rip your clothes off of you, France. You don't want my mouth on you; your lips, chest, neck- your cock.'

 _Dieu_ , England's mouth. He's always loved it, pretty tiny pale pout; how red it becomes when kissed and bitten, how nicely it contrasts against the white skin of his own thighs as it sucks and licks there-

'You certainly don't want to be under me right now, is that right? You don't want me to pick up where Germany slacks off? He's gentle with you, is he not? Tender and soft and everything you don't want him to be.' 

France has tried, countless of times. Begging for it with a pretty pout and his ass high in the air. Even then, Germany would jerk away as if burned. ' _Don't you think I have inflicted enough pain upon you as it is, Francis?'_ He'd snarl with a mixture of disgust and confusion pooling in his eyes, and no matter how France would plead and push and explain that _no, this is different,_ his lover wouldn't have it. 

'Germany _loves_ me.' France growls posessively. 'More than you have ever claimed to. '

England's viper-quick tongue cuts him off:

'That's a lie and you know it! Your bloody lies, they drive me insane. I- I need to _hurt_ you, France. God, I- want to fuck you until you forget everything he's ever meant to you-' 

' _Angleterre.._ ' He moans at the vivid, formidable imagines suddenly forming in his mind as lust erupts throughout his body, every fibre of his being suddenly ablaze with wild desire for the rotten man on the other end of the line.

'Tell me you don't want that. Tell me you don't want me! ' England demands with a darkness in his voice that makes France's head spin into all sorts of sinful places. 

'Tell me you don't crave to wrap your hands around my throat and squeeze until the tips of your fingers feel numb, make me shut up, finally _shut up_ , tell me you don't ache to make me bleed.' England growls; short, flat breaths betraying just how aroused he feels as well.

'You need to stop this, _Angleterre_ please, you're _despicable-'_ France gasps obscenely, cheeks stinging with heated shame. 

'Go ahead, France.' England whispers. 'Tell me you don't love me back.'

_God, how he wished he could._

'That's what I thought.' His nemesis jeers at his silence, and the triumph in his voice sickens France to his very stomach. 'Hope I've given you something nice to think about next time you're bending over for the Kraut.'

He wasn’t going to let him win. Not like this.

'Wrecking my happiness will not restore yours, _Angleterre_. The world is different now.'

'Maybe it has. But you and I haven't changed one bit, darling. You will realize eventually. I will be waiting.'

The certainty with which he coolly utters the statement makes France's blood boil and not in the least because he probably will he proven right in the end, for he's never been able to resist England's odd, magnetic pull for too long, no matter how desperately he tries to fall in love with someone, _anyone_ else. 

'You're a pathetic man, England, wishing to be hurt by the world just so you won't ever have to blame yourself for any of your actions, the wreckage you cause to everything you touch.' He seethes wildly, but England only laughs.

“I love you too, France.’

'Oh, shut up, _imbécile_ .You don’t get to do this. Go home and be drunk and alone, enjoy your newfound isolation like the fucking barbarian that you are! I hope you rot away in your cocoon. _Bonne nuit_.'

'I might have given up on the Union, but I won't give up on _you,_ France, never will.' 

England slams the phone down after that , leaving France clawing at the sheets with tears of fury in his eyes trying to calm his breathing.

* * *

_'Frankreich?'_

The sudden voice startles him, and he smiles apologetically as he sees Germany blinking away at the sleep in his eyes. 

' _Ah, merde!_ _Allemagne je suis désolé_ , did I wake you?' He whispers guiltily, incredibly aware of his flaming cheeks, bitten lips, the way he's painfully hard against the sheets. 

His lover takes in his appearance with a frown. His icy eyes linger disapprovingly on the cigarette butts on the nightstand, though he makes no mention of them. 

'Is it the nightmares again?' 

Though the war was over seventy years ago, they both encountered it almost every night. The honest concern on Ludwig's face as he draws this conclusion, the way his entire body subconsciously shifts towards him, ready to protect, it immediately soothes Francis' heart from where it had been beating painfully hard within his chest. 

'Talk to me, _Frankreich_.' Germany demands worriedly. His shirt slips up his torso as he sits up fully, displaying a glimpse of his hard abs. Strongly sculpted perfection, so very unlike Arthur and his bony, wiry physique that he had scathingly mocked over the centuries- 

The springs of the bed wail loudly as he pushes Ludwig back down onto it, kissing him passionately before the man can utter another stern enquiry. 

'Just nasty thoughts, _cheri_.' He whispers against the other's lips as he straddles his hips, suddenly determined to fuck every single bit of England out of his system. 'Won't you make me forget?' 

Germany indulges him for mere seconds, allowing France to press sloppy kisses into the crook of that thick, strong neck as large hands come up to caress his temples and cheeks, along the curve of his jaw. However, as he teasingly lets his fingers slide along the waistband of his lover's pants, a hand on his wrist stops him; gentle but determined. 

'You have to catch your plane tomorrow morning. Surely you are very tired. It is better if you try to get some sleep still.' 

_England wouldn't have thought twice to fuck you,_ a nasty little voice inside of France's head sing-songs. _Angleterre is but a desperate fool chasing fairytale endings_ , he retorts roughly, retreating to his own spot on the bed with a huff of annoyance, more angry at himself than at the man next to him. 

'I'm sorry, _Liebling_.' Germany calls out in a voice that betrays that he is uncertain as to what exactly he did wrong, as if he did anything wrong, and God, France truly did not deserve him in any way. 

'It's fine, _cheri_. Will you just hold me? For now?'

He hears Germany sigh in relief before he complies, feathering sleepy kisses onto his crown in an attempt to lull him back into slumber. He himself succumbs first however, drifting off with a slight snore, blissfully unaware of the fact that France does not sleep at all at night, his mind lost and drifting far away across the Channel. 


End file.
